All in Scarlet Uniform (Napoleonic War 4) (38 page)

Ahead of them was the low wall lined by redcoats of the 43rd. Williams could see the men levelling their muskets and sped on towards them. Several hussars were ahead of him, slicing down at will at the running men. The pounding of hoofs mingled with grunts of effort and pain, and the sound of steel striking flesh and bone. Some of the riflemen still tried to fight and a few were loaded and fired at the pursuers, but scattered men on foot had little chance against cavalrymen and only one or two of the French fell. The greenjackets died or fell from wounds and were captured.

Williams saw Rodriguez reach his other men, and turn protectively. The Spaniard shouted something, and he tried to glance over his shoulder, but then his boot slipped on the wet ground and Williams fell hard, the wind knocked out of him. Hoofs drummed just behind him, and then he cringed as an immense horse’s foot landed inches from his face. He felt rather than saw the heavy animal above him, the smell of horse sweat, mud and wet leather all around him, and then the first rider was past him, but more followed and Williams flinched as he lay there, seized by terror of being crushed.

There was the familiar sound of an ordered volley, like the heaviest-weight cloth being ripped savagely apart, and he heard balls whizzing over him. A rifleman tumbled down just a few yards away, blood oozing from the hole in his forehead. Horses were screaming in pain as they fell, and beyond the dead rifleman a dragoon in a dark green coat cried out as his dying horse rolled over him.

Williams scrambled up, grabbing his fallen musket. Dalmas and a dragoon were closing on the little group of redcoats. The cuirassier barged Rodriguez aside with his big horse, and as he passed sliced down. The Spaniard dodged, so that the tip of the blade merely sliced a line across the skin just above his eyebrows. Ahead of them, Dobson let go of Murphy, leaving Hanley to take him on. The veteran brought his musket up to his shoulder. Williams knelt, steadying his aim. A second platoon volley came from the 43rd, but Dalmas and his dragoon rode through it untouched. Williams guessed that the redcoats were aiming high to hit the main body of hussars.

He pulled the trigger, felt the butt of his musket slam reassuringly against his shoulder, and then pushed himself up to run through the smoke. Dalmas’ big horse was reeling away, head twisted at an unnatural angle, and then the animal folded down, and the cuirassier jumped free to roll on the grass. Dobson fired a moment later, putting a ball through the body of the French dragoon and the man wheeled away, the pink front of his jacket dark with blood.

Shots came from behind them, flicking through the rough grass. Rodriguez was on his knees, hands clutched to a face that was a sheet of blood, and Williams ran for him, grabbing the man by the arm to lift him. The 43rd fired another well-controlled platoon volley, a drill that was intended to provide a constant succession of fire rippling up and down the line. Dalmas was on his knees, struggling to get up, and Williams felt a great temptation to finish the man off, but knew that there was not time unless he abandoned Rodriguez.

‘Come on, old fellow,’ he said, and lurched into a run, the Spaniard easily keeping pace. Rodriguez managed to clear the muck from one eye and whooped with sheer joy because he could see again.

The volleys had driven back the cavalry, and some of the light infantrymen jeered as they watched the cuirassier officer limp away, but most were busy reloading or helping the survivors clamber over the wall. Simmons and O’Hare were there, along with a dozen of their men, but more than thirty lay stretched out in the muddy field or were bleeding and being led away as prisoners. For the moment the French voltigeurs pulled back a little way. Dobson washed the wound on Sergeant Rodriguez’s scalp and Williams was relieved to see that it was little more than a scratch. Head wounds always bled abominably, but all men feared to lose their eyes, almost as much as losing their manhood, and they were apt to panic when the flow of blood plunged them into darkness. The cut bound up, the Spaniard helped Murphy off to the rear.

A horseman appeared, reining in behind the line of the 43rd to give orders. Hanley smiled broadly.

‘Well, will you look at that,’ he said. ‘Billy Pringle no less.’

There were smiles, shaking of hands and slapping of backs. Explanations had to be brief.

‘I need to get back to the general,’ Pringle explained. ‘Reckon you ought to come along. He may have some questions.’

‘Happy to oblige,’ Hanley replied. ‘What is going on?’

‘Not much at the moment. The French have pulled back. For a while at least. We’re staying here and waiting to see what happens. Are you coming as well, Bills?’

Williams looked at Dobson before shaking his head. ‘Reckon we can help here.’

Pringle chuckled. ‘Bloodthirsty young hound,’ he said before turning to Hanley. ‘Probably won’t be able to find you a horse until we get there. Don’t worry, I’ll keep this fellow at a walk.’ He reached to pat his horse’s neck. ‘And I shall feel terribly guilty all the way!’

Major MacAndrews still waited for the order. It was half an hour since the first French thrust, led by their cavalry.

‘Four regiments at least, sir. Hussars, dragoons and probably chasseurs,’ a staff major reported. ‘Only a few skirmishers behind the cavalry, but at least a brigade of infantry and some guns are following, so most likely a division in total.’

This was more than had appeared before, and they were certainly more aggressive. One company of the 95th had been cut to ribbons, and another roughly handled. Other battalions reported a few losses from outlying pickets cut off by the sudden attack of the enemy cavalry.

‘Everyone has pulled back on to the heights.’ MacAndrews felt the word meant little in such rolling country. ‘The First Forty-third are on the left near Almeida, with the Ninety-fifth beside them and ready to form a skirmish line to their front. The cavalry are behind the flank. In the centre the two regiments of Portuguese chasseurs, with the Third on the right, next to the Fifty-second.’

‘Good,’ the general said curtly. ‘If they come on we shall give them a warm reception.’ They could see the dark French columns half a mile or more ahead of them.

Pringle arrived, reporting from the left of the line, and the Scotsman was delighted to see Hanley, and even more pleased to hear that Williams and the others were largely unscathed. It was good news, but it did not ease his fears that the general was hesitating too long.

It took time for Hanley to report, and then an ADC came in with more news and another half-hour had passed before MacAndrews had his chance.

‘Sir,’ he asked. ‘May I have you permission to start moving?’

Black Bob’s dark eyes flashed angrily. He flexed his gloved hand and seemed to calm a little, but for a few moments he stared at the major.

‘Yes,’ he said.

MacAndrews saluted and turned his horse. He just caught the general muttering something about getting some peace at last.

‘
W
ell done, Dalmas! First blood to us, eh!’ Marshal Ney was excited, his eyes gleaming and a glass of wine in his hand as he took a hasty breakfast. The cuirassier’s note had reported that the English were spread out along a wide front, and reported a defile that would allow a quick-moving column of horsemen to get around the enemy flank. In reply, the marshal had sent him a few squadrons of the 3ième Hussars. ‘Chopped up some of their grasshoppers, I hear!’ he added, using the soldiers’ nickname for the British greenjackets.

‘Caught them in the open,’ Dalmas said.

‘No damned good having their slow-loading rifles there!’ Dalmas doubted that the armament of the infantry made much difference. He had hit them from the flank and if not in square infantrymen were at the mercy of cavalry. ‘Lost your horse, I see,’ the marshal continued delightedly. ‘Lucky bastard. Nothing like having a horse shot from under you to bring on a good appetite. Have some of this. It’s good!’ The commander of 6th Corps held up a leg of roast chicken. All around them, the infantry were forming into four big columns, each of them two or three battalions strong. Drivers whipped their weary and half-starved horses to drag forward some light guns. On the flanks the cavalry squadrons rested. Soon the main attack would be ready, and for the moment there was nothing for the marshal to do except eat.

‘I’m fine, thank you, your grace.’

‘As you wish. Got yourself another horse?’

‘Owner doesn’t need her any more.’

Marshal Ney laughed. ‘All about luck in the end, isn’t it. Thankfully I was born lucky. We have them, my boy. I’ll follow this chicken with a dessert of rosbifs!’

A staff officer rode up. ‘The English have not moved.’

‘Truly?’

‘Standing like stones. About five battalions spread over two miles or more, and with a river behind them.’

‘Bloody fools. Well, we’ll soon carve them up.’

The staff officer looked at him. ‘The reconnaissance, your grace?’

‘Will consist of counting dead Englishmen,’ Ney said happily. ‘That should give the Prince all the information he needs.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘They tell me to press the English gently and learn about them.’ The marshal snorted derisively. ‘Makes me sound like some virgin. Tell me, Dalmas, am I that?’

‘No, your grace.’

Marshal Ney puffed out his chest and stretched, his thick brown hair more than usually shaggy. He roared with laughter. ‘No, your grace! I am like a sailor on shore after a year and seeing his first woman!’

‘The poor English,’ Dalmas said.

‘Then they shouldn’t have been waiting on the dockside.’ Ney beckoned to another of his staff officers. ‘Send the voltigeurs forward. Main columns to follow in twenty minutes with cavalry in support. How are the men?’

‘Almost dried out, but still angry.’

‘Excellent. Tell the regimental commanders to keep going forward. Never give them a chance to recover and we shall have their dresses and petticoats off in no time!’

‘Your grace?’ The ADC was puzzled.

‘Just tell them to keep going forward.

‘Now, Dalmas, your company has come up?’

‘Nearly here. Should arrive in ten minutes, your grace.’

‘Good. Keep them ready. I want you to stay on the right. Make sure the attack keeps going. Outflank any position if you can’t roll them over from the front. Use whatever cavalry you need, but always keep going. Get another couple of horses killed under you and the day will surely be ours!’

‘Yes, your grace!’ Dalmas saluted. ‘And the spy, your grace. I almost had him.’

‘Sod him. This is more important. If I can chop up one of their best divisions it will be the finest start to the invasion of Portugal we could have. Lisbon in a few months and then who will give a damn about spies and codes.

‘Hound them, Dalmas, hound them!’

The French skirmish line was thick, and the men forming it knew their job. All along the front muskets and rifles banged. The voltigeurs moved well, using cover like the veterans they were, and gradually the British and Portuguese gave ground. A scattering of green- and brown-jacketed bodies were left behind, and there were a few dead and wounded men in blue stranded by the tide of the French advance, but mostly the pressure was enough. The British gave way before the fighting became more serious.

O’Hare’s remaining men lined the wall beside the 43rd and added their fire to the redcoats’ muskets. Voltigeurs with tall yellow and green plumes darted from rock to rock in the field ahead of them. Williams was still not used to the 95th’s practice of firing without specific orders, but he and Dobson joined in, loading and firing in their own rhythm. The stink of powder was all around them, for the breeze had dropped and it was hard to see the French through the fog of smoke blossoming all along the wall. Balls snapped through the air past them, or smacked into the stones to show that the largely invisible enemy was still there.

Then they heard the drums.

‘Here they come, lads.’ Captain O’Hare’s voice carried along the little line.

Two beats, drummers pounding their sticks on tight drum-skins, then two more, and then a flourishing roll, the rhythm repeated again and again in the sound that had carried the French to victory throughout Europe.

A ball hit the top of the wall and flicked up, grazing Williams on the cheek. He touched the spot, winced because it was sore, but there was only a little blood on his fingers and he knew that it was no more than a scratch.

‘Pull back! Pull back!’ A tall captain of the 43rd with a pelisse hung fashionably from his shoulder shouted to O’Hare. ‘The French are coming around the flank! Retire by alternate companies. Take your lads back first!’

The rifle captain waved in acknowledgement.

‘Right, you rogues, we are going back. Rally at that next wall.’ He pointed up the slope.

The drums beat on, but the main column or columns were still out of sight. Williams and Dobson jogged back with the greenjackets. Behind them the 43rd fired a platoon volley, while another of their companies doubled up the slope and vanished through the gate of a walled orchard. O’Hare reformed his men and then blew a whistle to extend them as a chain of skirmishers in a line beside the low wall.

‘Just like old times, Pug,’ Dobson said as he knelt down in front of the officer, musket ready. They were at the end of the line, down in a little gully so steep that they could not see whether or not there was someone beyond it protecting their flank, and only a few of the riflemen were visible.

The nearest company of the 43rd retreated in turn, running back with their muskets held low at the trail. Quite a few of the men had their other hand pressed to their tall shako to hold the hats on as they ran.

Williams could hear a muffled shout now as the drummers paused before plunging again into that aggressive beat. Ahead, French voltigeurs were at the wall so recently occupied by the British. Dobson fired, and so did several riflemen. Williams moved to the side and knelt down, bringing his own musket to his shoulder to cover the veteran as he loaded. A few enemy skirmishers scrambled over the wall. Williams fired as several rifles cracked and one of the voltigeurs was flung back and lay draped over the top of the wall until comrades pulled him down.